


Here's to a lousy Christmas

by darwinzfinchez



Series: Surgeon AU [2]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Divorce, Family tension, Homophobic Language, Small children swearing, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinzfinchez/pseuds/darwinzfinchez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron's first Christmas with his family following his brother's death isn't very Merry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to a lousy Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm a bit of a grinch, apparently. As the summary (and title) might suggest, this fic isn't overflowing with Christmas cheer, but hopefully it's bittersweet, not just bitter. There are some jokes hidden in among the soul-destroying angst. But it deals with bereavement, and the first Christmas following a bereavement, so it's basically pretty gloomy.
> 
> Also, it's set in Scotland because it's what I know, and because I seem to write in a Scottish accent whether I like it or not. Those of you who aren't from round here, "wee toot" is a term of endearment for a small child. Though you could probably have figured that out :) And it features a guest appearance from the narrator of my other post-canon fics
> 
> As always, please let me know if I've forgotten any tags or trigger warnings - the biggest one for this fic is probably bereavement. There's also repeated use of an unpleasant homophobic slur.

Agron woke up at seven o’clock on the dot, as if Duro had switched on his light, sat down heavily on his feet, and impatiently exclaimed “Get the fuck up, fuckhead, I want my presents!” It had been acceptable when he was five, a bit weird when he was fourteen, and begrudgingly accepted by his long suffering family at some point in his early twenties. He was twenty six the last time. Agron cracked an eye open to check if now, at age twenty seven, Duro was doing it again. But this morning, he woke up to a dark room, a silent house, and the knowledge that his brother would never again wake him obnoxiously early on Christmas morning, because last Christmas had, indeed, been Duro’s last Christmas.

                Closing his eyes, Agron tried to go back to sleep. He had stayed up late the previous night reading, purely so that he would sleep in and minimise the amount of Duro-free Christmas he would have to go through. But some part of Duro lived on, it seemed, in Agron’s own brain, and would not let him sleep. Or perhaps it was Duro, jumping on his feet and punching him in the stomach from beyond the grave: _“Come on, Agron! Mum won’t let me open anything till you’re up. Get the fuck up, or I’ll dump red bull on your head.” “Why fucking red bull?” “Because it’s much stickier and more unpleasant than water. UP!”_

                Agron was wide awake. Very unusual for him. It normally took him half an hour and a lot of coffee to wake up properly. Was this what it was like to be Duro? He had been a morning person – an unnatural breed, in Agron’s opinion. Anyone who could spring out of bed at seven and be in a good mood was not to be trusted. Something ached – if he was the type to think about things in such terms, he would say it was his soul. He sat up, flicked on the bedside light, and picked up his book again.

                Three hours later, he heard footsteps – his mother and stepfather padding softly around, speaking in low voices. He listened, and heard the kettle going, then someone coming up the stairs. In one fluid movement, he turned off his bedside light, put his book down on the table and slid down under his covers. Strange how these things come back to you after so many years.

                His bedroom door opened and his mother, in her fluffy dressing gown, walked in. She sighed, seeing him lying on his side, eyes closed, apparently asleep.

                “Agron.” she said conversationally, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “That didn’t work when you were eight, it’s not going to work now.”

                “Mmm?” Agron said sleepily, cracking an eye open. He added a yawn for effect. “Morning, Mum. What time is it?”

                “Half ten. Merry Christmas.”

                “Merry Christmas.” Agron shuffled up the bed and sat up. His mum held out a mug.

                “I brought you a cup of tea.”

                “Thanks.” He accepted it, cupping his hands round it and hunching over it, not meeting his mother’s eyes.

                “Hey.” she reached out and cupped his face, forcing him to look up at her. “You all right?”

                “’M fine. I’m great.”

                She took a deep breath, like someone steeling themselves to do something difficult. Like rally troops to ride into battle or something.

                “Come on, wee man. Let’s go downstairs.”

                Agron shook his head.

                “C’mon! Maybe you don’t want presents, but I do!”

                “Go ahead, open them without me, I don’t mind.”

                “ _Agron._ ”

                “What?”

                She took a deep breath. The mother of Agron and Duro Bauer had had occasion to take many a deep, calming breath in her time.

                “The longer we leave it… if we avoid doing things, normal things like this, for a long time, it’ll only get scarier when we try to do it later.”

                “So that’s what you want to do? Pretend that everything’s normal?”

                Most people would have quailed under the look his mother gave him, but Agron steeled himself and stared back. After a moment, her face softened, but not in the way he had been hoping for. Even as she stuck her chin out, her lip trembled.

                “This _is_ normal, now. _Normal_ is Duro not being here.”

                “Mum!” Agron set his tea hastily on the table and held out his arms to hug his mum. She leaned into his shoulder and shook with barely-contained sobs. He felt his shoulder grow damp, probably with tears, possibly a bit of snot as well. Grieving people were so much easier to deal with when they weren’t your family and you didn’t have to hug them. Her hair may have gotten a bit wet as well, and if he hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, as she leaned away, she didn’t comment, just as he didn’t comment on her sniffing and wiping her eyes.

                “Get up.” she said.

                “No.”

                “Get the fuck up.”

                “Language, mother!”

                “Fuck off.”

                “I’m still drinking my tea.” He picked it up, as if to demonstrate, and drank some, with an elaborate and disgusting slurping noise. His mum narrowed her eyes at him.

                “All right then.”

                She didn’t leave, as he had hoped. Instead, she sat on his bed and watched him like a hawk, clearing her throat whenever she thought he was taking too long between sips. People who wondered out loud how Agron had turned out so thrawn and pigheaded tended to go “Ah. That’s how.” when they met his mother.

                “Right.” she said, taking the mug away from him and setting it down as soon as he was done. “Come on. Downstairs.”

                “I’m going to have a shower first.”

                She fixed him with one of her soul-shrivelling stares, and he felt a thrill of fear in spite of himself.

                “What!” he said defensively. “You snottered on me!”

                She made an impatient noise.

                “If you take too long, I’ll turn off the water.”

                “You won’t have to do that.”     

                She did.

 

After emerging from the shower, Agron slunk back to his room and sat on the bed in his towel. He looked at the closed door of his bedroom. Duro’s door was directly opposite – in their childhood they had stood in their separate rooms and played catch across the hall. Their mother allowed it because it was one of the places in the house where they could throw a ball around and be in very little danger of breaking anything. Agron had still once, with a particularly enthusiastic throw, bounced the ball off Duro’s doorframe and hit the light in the hall, shattering the bulb. It had been their stepdad, Alistair, at home that day – he had actually witnessed the fateful throw and been so impressed by it that he hadn’t even told them off – just got them to stay back while he cleared up the broken glass, replaced the bulb and said that he wouldn’t tell their mum.

                He wasn’t sure how long he sat there and thought about him and Duro playing together, until his mother started banging on his door and it became apparent that it had been too long.

                “Agron! Me and Alistair have both had showers and got dressed since you got out, if you don’t open this door in thirty seconds I’m coming in!”

                Knowing that she meant every word, Agron sprang up and looked around for his clothes. Still in his suitcase, except for the ones which were inside out all over his floor where he had dumped them last night.

                “Sixty seconds!” he shouted, kneeling in front of his case and rummaging for boxers.

                “Forty five!” his mum replied, which was more than he had hoped for. “Forty four…”

                “Fucksake, fucking bitch, can’t even let me get dressed…” he muttered, finding a pair and hopping around trying to get them on. Turning his jeans the right way out took precious seconds, and by the time he was doing them up his mum was at thirty.

                “Twenty nine.”

                “Fuck off!”

                “No fucking chance! Twenty eight, twenty seven.”

                “You’re counting too fast!”

                “Twenty six.”

                With a snarl, Agron hauled a t shirt out of his case and managed to put it on inside out and back to front. Cursing, he pulled it off again and fixed it.

                “Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.”

                “I hate you!”

                “I love you.”

                Agron froze for a moment, in the act of rummaging for socks.

                “Twelve, eleven, ten…”

                In silence, he unrolled a pair of socks, put them on and pulled on a hoodie just in time to open the door as his mum was saying “Four.”

                “There you are!” she grinned sunnily at him. “Come on, then.”

                He meant to follow her as she turned away, he really did, but found himself frozen in the doorway of his room. She turned round and looked like she was going to shout at him again until she saw his face.

                “Come here.” she said. She gave him a hug, and he found himself clinging to her, the way he did when he was little, when no matter what went wrong, his mum would be able to fix it. Then she pulled away, wrapping a surprisingly strong hand around his wrist.

                “Off we go.” she said firmly, but not unkindly, as she turned away from him and began to tow him towards the stairs.

 

                “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Alistair exclaimed, when Agron finally entered the living room, propelled by his mother. He looked at his watch. “Though it’s nearly afternoon now.”

                “Morning.” Agron mumbled, shuffling over to his stepdad and giving him a hug. His mum gave them a moment to embrace in silence before starting in on Agron again.

                “Yes, we’ve got to leave to get to your Auntie’s in an hour, and we should have some lunch first, we won’t have Christmas dinner till God knows when.

                “I’m not hungry.”

                “I was going to do bacon sandwiches.”

                “I-” Agron looked from his mother’s Have-You-Forgotten-Who-You’re-Fucking-Dealing-With expression, to his stepfather’s worn, wan countenance. He could almost hear Alistair thinking: Please, don’t do this. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.

                “I could probably manage some bacon.” he admitted. His mum smiled.

                “OK, fine. But first thing’s first. Presents.”

                Dread slid into Agron’s stomach as he looked at the Christmas tree, the presents piled up under it, and the four-man sofa. His mum’s seat at the far end, then Alistair’s, then his, then the seat that would be empty now.

 

He’d built it up a lot in his head, it wasn’t actually _quite_ as bad as he had thought it would be. With only three of them sitting on the sofa, they all sort of expanded sideways and took up more room, and the empty space was less noticeable. The worst moment was probably when Agron hesitated before reaching for his first present. They always took it in turns to open them, starting with the youngest and working their way up to the oldest. Duro always went first.

                An hour later, there was only one present left under the tree. Agron had to lie on his tummy and scoot along the floor to get it out. A shower of pine needles fell on him, and he grimaced, thinking of the nice, tidy, plastic tree in his own flat.

                “To Agron.” he read out. “From… Dad?” he looked up at Alistair, frowning. “Is this from you?”

                “No. It’s from your dad.”

                Something in the air changed – some tension appeared that wasn’t there before. Agron stared at the present, and no one said anything. Then, abruptly, Agron straightened up, shoved the present into the rubbish bag full of ripped-up wrapping paper, and strode out of the room. As if from very far away, he heard his mother shouting at him.

 

                “Agron. _Agron._ ”

                Agron came out of his room, his expression innocent.

                “Yes?”

                His mum held out the offending present.

                “Open it.”

                “No.”

                “Do it.”

                “I don’t want to.”

                “ _Agron!_ ”

                Agron looked steadily at his mother.

                “I know that you used to buy presents and label them from Dad.”

                “I – don’t be ridiculous, I would never-”

                “Yeah, you did. I always kind of suspected, but then I found the wrapping paper. Y’know, the different stuff that you bought and only used for our “Dad” presents, so it seemed like they were from someone different. I’ll give you credit, you did the job properly.”

                She didn’t say anything. Agron felt himself soften.

                “I never told Duro.” He did not add: but I reckon he knew anyway.

                His mother was biting her lip, looking up, away from Agron, as if she could, if she looked up high enough, keep the tears in her eyes and not let them run down her face.

                “I just wanted to do the right thing. To make it easier for you all, when he came back. If he came back.”

                “He didn’t.”

                “He did. He’s back now.”

                “Whatever.”

                “I spoke to him not long ago. He says you don’t reply to his texts, don’t answer the phone when he rings.”

                Agron shrugged.

                “Give him a chance, Agron.”

                Agron didn’t say anything. His mother pushed the present into his hands.

                “Open it. I need to get started on the bacon.”

                Rolling his eyes, Agron pulled the wrapping paper off. It was a jumper. Grey, v neck, nice material, soft but not too soft. Agron stepped across the room towards the wastepaper basket in the corner.

                “Agron, do not put it in the bin!”

                “I’m putting the wrapping paper in the bin, calm down!”

                His task completed, he dropped the jumper itself on the floor, and stepped on it as he recrossed the room to join his mother.

                “What?” he asked innocently.

                She stared at him. He shifted uncomfortably. Since earliest childhood, he had got used to his mother looking at him with annoyance, frustration, even sadness. But cold, hard anger of the What-have-I-created variety was more of a rare occurrence.

                “What?” he said again, feeling stubborn. Whose dad was he anyway? He could reject him if he wanted to.

                Shaking her head, she made her way downstairs. After a moment, Agron followed, catching a glimpse of the crumpled, trodden-on jumper on his way out of the room.

 

                “Agron’s here! Agron! Agron! Agron!”

                “I’m here too.” his mother muttered mutinously, but couldn’t stop herself smiling as a small, dark haired hurricane barrelled past her to throw her arms around Agron’s legs, almost toppling him. She grinned up at him.

                “Hi.”

                “I’m sorry.” Agron said, peering at the wee girl over the bundle of presents in his arms. “Who are you?”

                “I’m _Elena_!” she shouted, glaring at him.

                “ _Elena_! No, that’s impossible, Elena’s only a wee toot, you’re far too big and grown up to be Elena.”

                “I am, though!” she said, grinning. How was it possible, Agron wondered, for a smile to take up 90% of someone’s face.

                “Could you move, please! I’m half in, half out!”  

                Agron shifted forwards to let Alistair into the house, and a present slid out of the stack in his arms. He couldn’t remember what was in it, and hoped that it wasn’t breakable, until  Elena let go of his legs, jumping impressively to catch it.

                “Well held!” Agron exclaimed. “C’mon, lets go through the room before I drop anything else. Elena obediently skipped a couple of steps down the narrow hall, then paused, and frowned, looking from Agron, to his mum, then to his stepfather. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then abruptly closed it again and sped along the hall to the sitting room where everyone had gathered.

                What the… Agron wondered, then he realised. Of course. She hasn’t seen us since last Christmas. She forgot. She was about to ask where Duro was.

 

The presents were deposited under the tree without further mishap, and while he was kneeling on the ground, Agron reached out his arms to give Elena a proper hug. She threw her arms around his neck and managed to shoulder him in the throat. Gasping slightly, Agron hugged her close. After a moment, he made as if to loosen his grip, but she hung on. He frowned slightly. Elena did a lot of hugging, but most of her hugs were very short – at five (or was she six now?) she had too short an attention span for long embraces. He rubbed her shoulder and gave her an extra-tight squeeze, and she withdrew, though she was looking at the ground.

                “Hey?” he turned his head, trying to catch her eye. “You OK?”

                “Elena?”

                Agron looked up. Elena’s mother, his cousin Meryl, was standing at the door with a mug of tea in each hand, frowning slightly at Elena.

                “I’m _fine_ , Mum!” she said, and rolled her eyes at Agron. He laughed, but was actually quite disturbed. She was in a pram five minutes ago, when did she get all… adolescent?

                “Come on, Agron!” she said. “Come and see all my presents!”

                “Some of them are still here!” he exclaimed. “You still need to unwrap them.”

                “They won’t let me unwrap them for ages! Come and look at the ones I opened already, I got an Olaf!”

                “An Olaf!” Agron said, standing up and ignoring the sniggers of the other adults as he was forcibly pulled out of the room. “This I’ve got to see.”

 

                “That.” he said, regarding the toy in question, “Is definitely an Olaf.”

                “He’s great, isn’t he!” Elena said, grinning.

                “He’s fantastic.” Agron agreed, picking him up. “And huge! He’s almost as big as you!”

                “No he’s not! He’s only up to here!” She stood up and tugged the toy out of Agron’s hands, standing it on the ground. True to her word (and gesture) the top of Olaf’s head only just reached her waist. Agron evidently thought of her as being smaller than she was.

                “Oh, you’ve grown so much.” Agron smiled. He wiped away a fake tear. “Och, I remember when you were so small I could hold you in one hand!”

                “No you couldn’t! Babies aren’t that small!”

                “I could! I came to visit you and your mum in hospital just after you were born, and I could hold you by putting your head in my hand, and your feet just touched my elbow.”

                Elena frowned, leaning over to look at the forearm Agron was holding out to demonstrate.

                “I was really that wee?”

                “Yep. And now you’re… five – no, you must be six!” Agron frowned. “Did we get you anything for your birthday?”

                Elena hesitated.

                “We didn’t! Shit, Elena, I’m so sorry! How did that happen, normally my mum never forgets these things!”

                “It’s OK.” Elena scuffed her feet. “My mum said that you might forget. It was really soon after…”

                “After… Oh.” Agron scrambled to remember Elena’s birthday. It was in August or September sometime. Duro had died in July, not long before he was due to start work.

                “Oh, Elena, that’s such a shame. Your mum should have reminded us!”

                “She said she didn’t want to. She said you had enough on your plate. I didn’t mind, honest!”

                “Oh, c’mere!” Agron held out his arms for another hug, and Elena wrapped her arms around his neck. This time, she wriggled away quickly, like she usually did.

                “Were you really, really sad when Duro died?” she asked, in a tone of genuine curiosity.

                “Yeah.” Agron hoped his voice only sounded funny to him.

                “Did you cry?”

                I’m going to cry right now. “Yes, I did.”

                Elena stared at him. “I didn’t think grown ups could cry.”

                “Well, we can. Only when we’re really sad though. Not when someone else takes the last biscuit.” He raised his eyebrows at Elena, who flushed. She sat down on the ground and played with her bracelet for a minute, glancing up at Agron a couple of times. Agron had the feeling she was about to say something, and didn’t speak. At last she broke the silence

                “Why did he die?”

                “How d’y’ mean?”

                “I mean… I know Grandad died because he was really old and unwell, but Duro wasn’t old. And he wasn’t ill. I asked. Mum said he wasn’t. But then she wouldn’t tell me why he did die.”

                Agron felt a rush of annoyance towards Meryl. He remembered the frustration he’d felt as a child when things were kept from him, from people who wanted to protect him but in doing so allowed his imagination to run wild, coming up with much worse things than the actual truth. He wanted to tread carefully, though.

                “Um. Some people started having a fight, and Duro went in between them to stop them fighting, and he got really badly hurt and then he died.”

                “Oh.” Elena frowned. “Mummy said that it was an accident.”

                “Well, it sort of was. The people who were fighting didn’t mean to hurt Duro, they didn’t want to hit him at all. So it was an accident.”

                “Oh.” Elena’s face was very serious. Agron smiled at her with half his mouth. She studied him for a moment.

                “Do you miss him?”

                This time, he didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded, and looked down, and found himself looking at the top of Elena’s head. She had just climbed into his lap. She slid her arms round his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her, and they sat like that for a long while.

 

                “Where do I sit?” Agron demanded.

                “Here, we’ll budge up.”

                The three people already sitting on a three person sofa shuffled to one side, leaving a tiny sliver of space for Agron.

                “There’s barely room for Elena in there!”

                “Agron, since you’re up” his mother began. “Go and get my handbag from the hall, I need my glasses.”

                “Fucksake!” he huffed, starting towards the door.

                “Fucksake!” Elena parrotted gleefully, and the outbreak of tittering from the other grown ups drowned out Meryl’s attempted admonishment. Agron smiled proudly down at her.

                “Atta girl.” he said, and she beamed at him.

 

The present giving at his aunt’s house was a bit more haphazard than at theirs in the morning. There was no set order, and Elena (the only actual child at the gathering) seemed to have more frequent turns to open presents than anyone else – mostly because she was sitting on the floor in an ideal present-grabbing position. However, finally, she decided it was time to give Agron a present. She held it out to him, then unexpectedly whipped it out of his hand before he could take it.

                “Teach me another swearword, then you can have it.”

                “Agron!” his mum said, in a warning voice, but he was considering.

                “Bollocks?” he said. “Have we done bollocks before?” Elena’s face-splitting grin told him they hadn’t.    

                “Bollocks…” she said, slowly, trying it out. Then, louder. “Bollocks!”

                “Elena! I’m going to take away your presents!”

                “No!”

                “Give ‘em here!” Agron said urgently. “I’ll protect them!”

                Hastily she scooped up her presents (mostly Frozen themed) and chucked them at Agron, who stuffed them between his hip and the arm of the sofa.

                “Agron, _please_ stop teaching her swearwords!” Meryl pleaded.

                “You fucking started it!”

                This was true. A couple of Christmases ago (Elena would have been four) Meryl had been given a DVD of love actually for an early Christmas present. Dismissing the fact that it was a 12 certificate, and only remembering the wholesome, heart warming bits of it, she put it on for her and Elena to watch together. Ten minutes in, she realised why it was a 12 when Bill Nighy let fly with an expletive filled rant. Switching it off immediately, Meryl sat Elena down for a Very Serious Talk about how those were Very Bad Words and she wasn’t to use them, ever, or Mummy would be Very Cross. Elena had promised, and kept to it until Agron and Duro walked into the house on Christmas Day, when they had been greeted by innocent, blue-eyed, doll-faced Elena clearly and precisely reciting: “Fuck wank shitting bugger arse head and hole”. Agron and Duro had both laughed so hard they’d sat down in the narrow hallway and howled for a good minute and a half, and people had to step over them. Various people had randomly burst out laughing throughout the rest of the day, and Duro and Agron both started shaking with laughter whenever they made eye contact for the rest of the day. Even the sting of Duro’s absence couldn’t make that memory _entirely_ unfunny, and Agron and a few other people smiled, thinking back to it.

 

As usual, someone tried to persuade people to sit still and not eat their food while he gave a toast. Agron and Duro had always made a game of very slowly and subtly sneaking string beans off the plate in the middle of the table and eating them while the toast was going on. This year, he thought he would have to actually listen to Uncle Peter, since he had no one to play with. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elena’s hand slowly shifting forwards across the table towards the bowl of carrots. Her face was turned towards Uncle Peter, her expression angelic and attentive as she slowly, apparently without anyone noticing, took a carrot out of the bowl, brought it back into her lap and popped it into her mouth, her gaze never moving from the speaker. With a small smile, Agron slowly reached out towards the green beans….

                “Agron!” his mother hissed. “Stop it! Wait until Uncle Peter’s finished talking!”

                “I’m not doing anything!”

                “You were about to take a string bean!”

                “I was not – OK, I was, but – but Elena started it!”

                “Elena!” his mother sounded almost theatrically horrified. “What are you talking about? Elena would never do such a thing! Look at that sweet wee girl!” She indicated Elena, who had her best angelic  face on. “Is that the face of a wee girl who would steal carrots before she’s allowed to?”

                “I-” Agron was at a loss. “I… I’m sorry.”

                “Can I carry on now?” Uncle Pete asked wearily, from the head of the table.

                “Yes, Peter, you can. Agron’s going to behave himself.”

                Agron mimed zipping his mouth shut, and put his hands in his lap, adopting an innocent expression. As Uncle Peter continued, he snuck a glance down at Elena, who couldn’t quite stop herself from smiling.

                “You win.” he whispered, and Elena grinned.

                He didn’t see how, on the other side of him, his mother was watching, and listening to, the exchange, with a small smile on her lips. Agron didn’t smile as much these days as he used to.

 

Agron’s phone buzzed. Taking it out, he saw that he had a text from “Fuck Off”. Scowling, he opened it and scanned it.

                Merry Christmas Agron. I love you. Would love to speak to you sometime soon. You can ring me any time. Love Dad

                After hesitating for a moment, he deleted it.

 

                “Agron?” Elena said, in a curious voice.

                “Mm hmm?”

                “What’s a faggot?”

                “Uh…” For perhaps the first time, Agron looked around for Meryl, hoping she was nearby enough to overhear and tell Elena off. But she was over at the other side of the room, in fact most of the other adults were clustered over there, with the hubbub of their conversation masking what he and Elena were saying. Elena was still looking up at him expectantly.

                “It’s, um…” he had never felt the need to explain to Elena what homosexuality was, and wasn’t quite sure how to go about explaining the concept of an unacceptable homophobic slur to her.

                “Is it a bad word?” she asked.   

                “Yes.” he answered honestly. “Yes, it’s a very bad word.”

                “Faggot!” she crowed gleefully. “Faggot, faggot, faggot!”

                That shut the others up. They all turned, as one, and stared at Agron and Elena. Ironic, he thought idly to himself, that his love of teaching Elena swearwords and encouraging her to act up was turning on him. Hoist by his own petard, as his mother would say. He felt his face burning, and thought he saw Elena’s pleased expression slip slightly, as she looked up at Agron and saw that he wasn’t laughing. In the sudden ringing silence, he could very clearly hear his mum (who had had a glass of wine in her hand since they arrived) saying

                “Who’s that? Who the fuck just said that?”

                The others passed to let her through, and Agron was tempted to step between Elena and his mother, but couldn’t quite manage it before his mother was striding across the room and kneeling before Elena, her face like thunder.

                “You! Did you just say that?”

                Elena was silent, her blue eyes very big.

                “Well! Did you just call Agron a faggot?”

                “I-” Elena, as well as Agron, was now looking around for her mum.

                “How dare you.” His mum’s voice was calm and steady and terrifying. “How _dare_ you speak to my son like that! How _dare_ you call him that! If I ever, _ever_ hear you using that word again, I’ll tan your fucking hide. Do you understand?”

                Elena was looking at the ground and beginning to back away, as if about to try and hide behind the sofa. Linda reached out and grabbed her hand, holding her where she was.

                “ _Do you understand?_ ”

                “Mum!” Agron pulled the two of them apart, and put his arm around Elena. “El…”

                But Meryl had stepped forward out of the crowd of grown ups, and Elena bolted for her. Linda straightened up, looking vaguely horrified, and looked from Agron, who was staring at her as if she might bite him, to Elena, who was sobbing loudly and being comforted by her mum.

                “Sorry, I… sorry.” she muttered, and abruptly left the room.

                Alistair joined Agron standing in the doorway, and they watched as she jogged up the stairs, listening once she was out of sight, and hearing a door close and lock. The bathroom. The two of them looked at each other.

                “What the hell.” Alistair said, and Agron couldn’t think of anything to add.

               

                “No, really, I’ll go.” Agron said, and Alistair shrugged. Glancing over his shoulder at Elena, who was sniffling on her mum’s knee, and being offered chocolate by the other adults, he turned and left the room and began to make his way, with a heavy heart, up the stairs.

 

                “Mum?” He knocked on the bathroom door. “Mum, are you in there?”

                A non committal noise.

                “Mum. Come on. Come out.”

                “I…” he heard a dull sound, then a slithering sort of noise, as if his mum had leaned against the door and then slid down to sit against it. “I don’t know.” Her voice seemed to be coming from lower down. Agron sat down.

                “Mum. It’s OK.”

                “Is it? Are you sure? Did I imagine the bit where I made a five year old girl cry?”

                “She’s six. We missed her birthday.”

                “Fuck!”

                Agron smiled, and leaned his head on the door.

                “Look, everyone’s … everyone knows that this is a hard day. _I_ know that it’s a tough day for you. I’m sorry, I should have…” Done what? Been more supportive? Been nicer? Not gone out of his way to be awkward and make everything worse? He cleared his throat.

                “I’m sorry.”

                “No! No, Agron, don’t worry about it. It actually… well, it helped, honestly. Took my mind off how bad I was feeling, that I had you to worry about.” There was a sniff from the other side of the door. “That’s not a license to be an arsehole all the time, by the way.”

                “Damn!” Agron was feeling a bit sniffy himself now. “That’s what I was hoping for! I was going to go downstairs and start telling everyone what I really think of them!”

                “Good thing I told you.”

                “Yeah. I was going to start with Meryl. She’s put on weight.”

                “Agron!” She sounded almost back to normal.

                “What! She’s downstairs, she can’t hear. And it’s true.”

                “You are bloody impossible.”

                “I’m your fucking son, that’s why.”

                “Yeah, that’ll be it.” There was a pause. Agron had a feeling his mum was about to say something else.

                “It’s so weird.” Agron had to press his ear to the door to hear his mum. “Just having one of you to buy for.”

                Agron’s eyes felt suddenly itchy, and he rubbed them with the heels of his hands.

                “Uh huh?” he said, as clearly as he could around the lump in his throat. He thought he heard his mum sigh on the other side of the door.

                “I bought him a jumper.”

                “You did what!”

                “By accident! I just saw it, and thought he would like it, and I had paid for it and gone out of the shop before I knew it! And then I took it back in to return it, and it was the same assistant, and she asked why I was returning it.”

                “Ah.” Agron almost laughed. He could imagine the awkwardness of that situation. Debating with yourself whether or not to tell the shop assistant “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it, I just remembered that the person I bought it for is dead.” They didn’t talk about this stuff in the Dealing With Bereavement pamphlets.

                “I, um-” Agron cleared his throat. “I did something a bit similar. I saw a book in a shop, and I thought Duro might like it, and I picked it up. And then I put it down again, because I’m not a _fucking idiot_.”

                “Oi!” His mother sounded like she was laughing. “Watch it, you! Maybe I’ll come out there and give you a slap!”

                “Come on then!” There was a pause, in which his mum did not come out. “Mum, c’mon. Come out, please. Other people need to use the bathroom.”

                There was a tense pause, before he heard the lock click, and the door opened. Scrambling to his feet, he surveyed his mother, taking in her bloodshot eyes and messed up hair from leaning on the door.

                “Come here, you.” He held out his arms and gave her a hug. They stood there for a moment before breaking apart. Agron jerked his head to indicate that they should go downstairs.

                “Oh, great.” his mum said sarcastically, as she began to make her way down. “I can apologise to the preschooler I terrorised.”

                “She started school in August. Remember that letter she wrote us for Duro’s funeral?”

                “Fuck! How is she growing up so fast?”

Well, Agron thought. You know what they say. Watching your children grow up sucks, but it’s better than the alternative.


End file.
